It Should Be Said In Scottish
by Arre-Kate
Summary: katie has drawn a pic of oliver, deadly accurate and deadly sexy, all well and fine except she didn't mean to... what does oliver think? [oneshot]kbow formerly:IN SCOTTISH.


_In Scottish_

_By: Lady Arre._

_A/N -Another romantic Katie and Oliver oneshot. It actually kinda happened by accident. _

_Disclaimer: i don't own anything so don't sue me, you won't make tuppence.

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Names have power and in them is contained your soul. I know this is true but when I say it… 'Katie Bell' … the words always seem foreign to me, like they belong to someone else. The name is too simple, too straight forward… too _easy _to belong to me.

How could these three simple syllables possibly make sense of who I am. Do they spell out my musings, my dreams; my family? In them can you see me in the window seat in Gryffindor tower, looking over the quidditch pitch? Or drawing or writing? Do you feel how devastated I would be if anything happened to my brother or cousins? is my muse present in the sounds? Can you see him flying around my dreams?

Does the name "Katie Bell" conjure drawings of mountains, of fields in Ireland where my fathers ancestors fought their battles? Can you see my brother and his wife in Scotland?

Does "Katie Bell" shout stories, because In my heart I hear every story that I've ever been told… I hear them playing out, all the tradgedies and romances, myths and legends. I write my own but I cannot write who wrote them, because when I say or write the words the name seems broken and unfitting, like too big Wellingtons or a hat that hinders your sight.

But as empty as the name seemed to me here it was written over and over again... filling up the page. I do not know who wrote it, but as I stare at the handwriting I see something familiar to me in the way the 'B' curls into the 'e' and how the 'K' straightens its back. The vermillion ink is as red and as powerful as the gules in heraldry. ((A/N I realise you can't all be nerds like me and love history so I'll explain that. Gules was the name for the colourred in heraldry (which is basically when knights used their shields to identify each other) there's obviously more to it than that so if you'd like to know more go see you local library! R) )

My eyes follow the vertical grain of the page, picking detail. The words get heavier as I follow them, as if the writer was getting more and more frustrated and was pressing harder and harder on his quill. My attention falls to the bottom corner. And I inhale sharply. 'Damn it Katie, I love you too much' it reads.

Who loves Katie Bell? I turn the paper over and frown there is no clue as to the writer's identity. Disappointed and curious I slide the paper into my sketch book and move across the common room to my window seat. For a moment I gaze out at the quidditch pitch where Ravenclaw are having their practise. The captain, Roger Davies, who had kissed me once, is drilling them in stopstarts. After a moment I shake my head, it was no Ravenclaw dropping pages in the Gryffindor common room.

I take a fresh page of my sketch book and begin to draw. I sketch in the background, a castle in the Scottish highlands, and shade it. In the picture the sun is perhaps two hours of setting. It gives the sky shadow and makes the trees and mountain face look almost ethereal. I realise as I finish shading that I am biting my lip. I always do when I'm concentrating, another detail my name doesn't tell.

I scrunch up my fringe and blow air up into it. Wrinkling my nose, I inhale as my fingers fly across the page again. I begin to draw into the picture the boy it is who wrote on the page. Perhaps my fingers will be right?

He is tall, broad-shouldered and bellows-chested. His arms are strong enough to fit his build and perhaps a little more. The muscles define themselves as my pencil darts to and fro as if dragonflies had birthed it. The boy is a quidditch player, possibly a beater or keeper. His hands are large and quaffle-calloused, and his knuckles are obvious. It looks as if he has broken his left hand before. His right hand runs through the messy brown hair on the back of his head. His feet are planted strongly. He is confident and well aware of his territory. I fill nin the detail on his jeans I can almost feel the rough texture. There is a tiny rip on his left leg. A simple gold and red sweater covers his torso, he has rolled the arms up and it only helps him to look confident and proud.

I turn my attention to his face. Strong cheekbones, a straight lined nose, his lips are slightly apart and he grins up at me from the page. He is cheeky and childish but he demands my respect and adoration. The eyebrows form quickly they are thick enough for his face and they turn up a little just before the tips. I add stubble, I have the impression he will not shave just for appearances.

His eyes prove difficult I cannot visualise them and my fingers will not oblige me. I pull out the page I had found and stare at it. I close my eyes for a moment and dream them up.

They are brown with golden lion-flecks and and a jade green ring around the pupil. In them there is a boyishness, a contented self-pride and an arrogant cockiness. I look deeper and see yet more- Astonishment, adoration, ambition and a tease of something more serious.

Quickly, I turn again to my paper and draw in what I see. Satisfied now I shut my book leaving the page I had found with the drawing it had inspired. I look down at my right hand it is silver with graphite dust.

I yawn, I didn't realise how long I had been sitting there. I slide the pencil into the rings of the books binding and stand up and stretch. I am startled to see Oliver wood leaning on the wall across the common room, watching me. He grins at me arrogantly and wanders over.

"May I look?" he asks indicating my sketch book. Dumbly I hand it over.

Once it is in his hand I realise that the page is still in there and it is no longer hidden in the middle of the unused part. It is opposite my latest work.

Oliver wood sits down and I sit next to him. I watch avidly as he looks through it. There many of mountains, forests lakes and mythical beasts. He skims past them. He stops though and looks closely at a picture I drew after our quidditch match with Ravenclaw. Our whole team is there- Licia, Ange, the weasleys, harry even Oliver circling the goalposts. Davies is marking me, preventing Licia from passing to me.

_Oliver-outside-the-drawing_ growls, "You like him or something?"

"Of course not" I reply. What business of Olivers it is, I don't know.

Oliver turned back to my sketch book. The next drawing is another landscape just a few green hills and a celtic stone monument. I like the look of it, that irish country side feel. Oliver turns the page and I blush as I see what he is now looking at.

It was months ago that I drew it. I was just letting my fingers draw what they liked. A man in an armchair in front of the fire. It was, _theoretically_, nothing incriminating. However the man in the picture who was leant back on the couch dozing off, shirtless, in faded dark blue jeans, just like a pair Oliver owns. The body was good if I say so my self broad shouldered, long limbs, defined triceps. But unfortunately it was as if I had drawn an exact portrait of my quidditch captain. Oliver looks at me curiously, I can't pick his expression. He turns back to the picture again and looks at it further. Then he turns the page

He stops again at my latest attempt. I peer at it over his arm and jump back in horror. The man I had drawn _was_ Oliver! I'm shaking in mortification, but I force my self to look up at him. He hasn't even seen my drawing yet. He is staring at the page that I had found.

"Where did you find this?" he asks, his voice sounds a little shaky and his accent is thicker.

"On the floor-over there" I answer truthfully.

"Do you know whose it is Katie?"

"No"

"I do" Oliver hands my book back, but he still holds the parchment I'd found in his hand.

"Whose?"

"A boy…"

_Well that's good…_

"He was trying to study last night. You distracted him. You sitting by the window, quietly drawing… with your fringe falling over your eyes"

Oliver tucks a bit of my fringe back.

"I _was_ drawing last night…" I say slowly- "but you were the only other person in the common room…!"

Oliver coughs uncomfortably, and takes my book back. He opens to the drawing I had just done and grins at me.

"Guilty as charged, but are you so innocent yourself?"

I can feel the blood rising to my face- I scrunch up my fringe and stutter who knows what. Oliver is still grinning at me.

"So? Is it true?"

I look up at him uncomfortably, my insides are shaking and I don't think I can stand up much longer. But maybe he's right maybe there always was athing for Oliver in me. A soft spot I suppose.

"Maybe" I answer but nod anyway.

Oliver ducks his head down and his messy brown hair falls in his eyes. Underneath it his eyes glitter, and in them I can see everything that I had drawn. He kisses me and then, pulling back, he smoothes down my fringe and chuckles again.

"Merlin knows how much I love you Katie Bell"

Katie Bell,... Katie Bell... Katie Bell- I understand now, it never seemed to fit me because it was only meant to be said in Oliver's thick highlander accent.

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_A/N My seventh story! I actually wrote this one out by hand and then typed it up- so it probably doesn't make sense, but if it does and you like it please review and tell me... and if it doesn't and you can't tell if you like it or not because it doesn't make sense you could just review anyway and tell me I'm wonderful because it'll make me feel good, and it could be your good deed of the day! _

_-:laughs:-_

_Damn I'm messed up…_

_- and thats another reason why you should review!_


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